


Ze Doctah Is In!

by a_nonny_moose



Series: Egotober 2017 [27]
Category: Markiplier Egos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-30
Updated: 2017-12-30
Packaged: 2019-02-24 05:03:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13206543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_nonny_moose/pseuds/a_nonny_moose
Summary: Bim's excited for Halloween, but not everyone wants to play dress-up.





	Ze Doctah Is In!

"Dark, have you decided what you’re going to be for Halloween?”

Dark glanced up from his work to see Bim standing in his doorway, looking disgustingly hopeful. Dark rolled his eyes, looking back down. “No.”

“But Da-ark!”  


“‘But’ nothing,” Dark growled, forcefully turning a page, avoiding Bim’s eye as he walked in.

Bim approached Dark’s desk with a healthy look of hesitation, and Dark put his work down to glare at him. 

“We’re going to trick-or-treat and everything,” Bim pouted a little, fidgeting.   


Dark sighed. “If I say that I will ‘dress up,’ will you go away?”

“That depends,” Bim stuttered, the words tumbling out before he could stop himself, “are you only saying that to _make_  me go away?”  


Dark raised an eyebrow, sitting back: impressed, despite himself. “Yes,” he said, after a moment. “I am.”

Bim, flushed, started to back away. “Well, you’re not getting any candy.”

“Hmm,” Dark hummed, turning back to his work, a dangerous smile playing on his face. “We’ll see about that.”  


Bim closed the door with a little yelp, catching his finger in the doorjamb, and Dark narrowed his eyes, not taking in a word of the paper he was scanning. 

Halloween was promising, at the very least, a time when the magic of figments was stronger, closer to corporeal than ever. Maybe, Dark thought, rubbing his forehead, he would do something... special. Absent-minded, he stuck the end of his finger into his mouth, teeth bared, biting nails. 

A moment, and he glanced at his hand. Nails had turned into claws, and teeth into fangs, in the early days. The fans had envisioned him as some kind of monster, a demon, a _vampire._ Wilford had mocked him, until the aura took over. Mocked, until his eyes turned black and his shoulders hulked and his mind went blank with the loss of control. 

Dark shivered a little, even with the October sun filtering, warm, through the windows. The loss of control had been often, those days, and messy. It wasn’t something that he could afford, now. 

And yet...

He looked his hand over again, long-fingered and veined, the remnants of bulking muscle. Perhaps, for Halloween, an exception could be made. 

And even as he watched, his nails lengthened into gleaming claws. 

* * *

Bim shuffled towards the Host’s room, a smile still determinedly in place. It was almost Halloween, and the spirit of the season was obvious in the paper bats lining the hallway, the pumpkins on their doorstep. Bim looked around, proud, as a bat fluttered sadly to the floor. 

Well, it was a work in progress. 

“Hosty!” Bim opened the Host’s door, sticking his head inside. “How’re your Halloween preparations going?”  


“The Host is working, Bim.”  


“I’ll just be a second, I want to see--”

“The Host. Is. Working.”   


A draft of cold air, and the door slammed shut, Bim pulling his head back just in time. 

“I’ll check on you later, then,” Bim muttered, scuffing his shoe against the floor. The Host and Dark were hard nuts to crack, after all, and he wasn’t discouraged: but, after a month of the two of them insisting that they weren’t participating, Bim was starting to let a seed of disappointment bud in the pit of his stomach. 

At least, he figured, the others were more agreeable. 

The Googles’ door was just across the hall, and Bim opened the door quietly. 

“What _I_  do not understand,” Google_R was saying from the floor, “is why the _rest_  of us have to participate in his excuse for--”  


“Bim.” Oliver spoke without turning from his work, and Google_R rolled to his feet.   


“Hello,” Google_B beeped, expression studiedly neutral. Google_G looked away from Bim, a flush rising to his cheeks, as Google_R scowled.   


“Hey, Googs,” Bim grinned, glossing over the snatch of conversation. “I just wanted to see how your Halloween stuff’s going.”  


“Great,” Google_G jumped in, avoiding Bim’s eyes. “We have prepared candy, and our costumes--” he whirred a moment in something approaching confusion, looking helplessly to the others, “--are coming along nicely.”  


“Awesome,” Bim chirped, forcing a quick, bright smile. “Well, I’ll leave you guys to... whatever it is you’re doing.”  


The Googles stared as he closed the door, silent, unblinking. Bim breathed, frowning at the drooping paper bats in the hallway. 

This had been a year of firsts, he reflected, kicking at the wall on his way to his own room. He didn’t see Dr. Iplier poking his head out of his own door, eyeing Bim’s slumped shoulders, before ducking back in.

Bim shuffled down, thinking of the studio, of projects in the making. Ever since February, since he’d come _back from the dead_ , he’d figured that anything was possible. Between Wilford encouraging Halloween costumes by pulling a military uniform out of nowhere, and the row of jack o’ lanterns that they’d convinced Mark to leave outside the front door of the office, Bim was more than hopeful about their holiday.

Well, had been. 

Bim stopped outside Dr. Iplier’s door with a sigh that felt like defeat. Doc was probably busy, like the others. Bim took a breath, fist poised to knock, hesitating.

A moment, hanging in the air, and Bim drew back. 

He hadn’t yet taken two steps down the hallway when there was a clatter from the Doctor’s room, and Bim hurried back.

“Doc?” he called through the closed door, listening, tentative. “You okay?”

More noises, the sound of surgical carts being upended-- Bim had heard that sound with Wilford too many times to count. Heart in his throat, he edged the door open.

“Doc?”

 It was uncharacteristically dark in the clinic, the flicker of a lone light over an operating table. Bim inched closer, looking around, on edge. The Doctor had never been one to test his limits, like Wilford. Or Dark. Or really, any of the others. Still, Bim thought distantly, eyes wide, there was a first time for everything.   


“H-hello?” Bim’s voice echoed, the air suddenly still, and he had the sudden, flashing realization that _he really shouldn’t be here_.  


He was almost halfway back to the door, back to safety, when he heard it. 

A crank, a whirr, and the churning of something he’d only ever heard in video games.

Footsteps, and suddenly everything was too loud. Bim looked to the door, light spilling from the hallway, then back into the depths of the clinic. It was a hesitation, and a moment too long. 

“Bim!”  


Bim stumbled over himself, back hitting the wall. “Um, Doc, is that-- is that you?”

“Vell, yes, in a sense.”  


There was a distinct lilt to his speech that Bim couldn’t quite place, and against his better judgement, Bim peered into the gloom. A motor revved, and Bim gulped.

Out of the shadows, he could just barely see the outline of Dr. Iplier’s white coat, a mask stretched over the lower half of his face. He walked into the light, and the smell of oil hit Bim’s nose.

“Is that a chainsaw?”  


The Doctor’s eyes gleamed, a wink in the shadows, and Bim caught a flash of something offensively green haphazardly taped to Dr. Iplier’s head as he lunged, laughing. 

“AAAAAH!” Bim dropped to the floor, arms covering his head, but it wasn’t enough to stop the Doctor. 

Dr. Iplier stopped with the tip of the chainsaw inches from Bim’s suit. “Vell?” Bim looked up, heart rabbiting in his chest, and could make out a wide grin under the Doctor’s mask. 

Dr. Iplier straightened up, laughing, drawing the chainsaw back, and Bim breathed. “Doc, what--”

“None of zis ‘Doc’ nonsense,” Dr. Iplier pouted, striking a pose. Bim could properly see him now, what looked like brightly-colored moss strapped to his hair. “I am Doctah Schneeplestien, medical professional extraordinaire!” He winked, and Bim felt something like warmth blossom in his chest.   


“It’s my Halloween cost-- Bim, are you okay?” Dr. Iplier took a step back, dropping the accent, as Bim’s eyes went wide and he suddenly doubled over, shoulders shaking. For a moment, Dr. Iplier considered the ramifications of rushing at one of his best friends with a makeshift chainsaw. “Er,” he put the weapon down, ripping the mask off of his face. “Bim, I--”  


“That,” Bim wheezed, “was _fantastic_.” He looked up at Dr. Iplier, face pink with laughter, and took his hand warmly. “Doc,” he gasped, grinning, “you _have_  to do that for Halloween.”  


Dr. Iplier began to giggle, flush with relief. His “You’re not mad?” went unspoken, replaced instead by “Of course I will,” and a grin, flicking the lights back on. 

Bim looked across at the Doctor, ill-fitting mask and wig, and found himself smiling, too. 

“I’m glad that you like it,” Dr. Iplier said, a bit softer, dropping to the floor next to Bim.

“Fantastic,” Bim breathed again, looking at Dr. Iplier with what might as well have been stars in his eyes.   


Dr. Iplier’s heart melted a bit, grinning at Bim. He was like a kid, almost: younger, a bit naive, but sweet all the same. 

“One thing, though.”  


“Mm?” Dr. Iplier reached out on impulse to ruffle Bim’s hair, but thought better, ending up awkwardly patting him on the shoulder. “What’s that?”  


Bm pouted, looking a few inches above Dr. Iplier’s eyes. “We need to fix the hair.”

“It’s all I had!”  


“It’s repulsive.”  


“I am Doctah Schneep, and I vill not tolerate this slander!” Dr. Iplier frowned in mock anger, gesturing in the air.  


Bim dissolved into giggles again, leaning back against the wall, as Dr. Iplier tried to find new and amusing things to shout in a horrid German accent.

Laughter was found often, here, despite the tight ship that Dark and the Googles tried to run, despite the work that had to be done. Sometimes it was in a treasured moment between scenes, Wilford nudging Bim in the ribs; sometimes it was the Host making Bim an extra coffee if they happened to be in the kitchen at the same time.

It was friendship.

And yeah, Bim figured, they all had their bad days. Days when work or Dark’s literal storm cloud managed to consume them all. Days when the Googles’ room exploded and the four of them wouldn’t emerge for days, bitter in their failure. 

It happened less and less, now. The bad days receded: not all at once, but circling the drain, overstaying their welcome. The good days come with the dawning of the sun: bit by bit, imperceptible, but brightening every second.

And whether it was in the heat of a moment onstage or here, sitting in a giggling heap on the floor of the Doctor’s clinic, happiness found its way in. 


End file.
